


The Bluff

by MadgirlSBA



Series: born right in the doorway [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Hockey politics, Internalized Homophobia, Jack Zimmerman is Getting Better, Kent Parson is Not Okay, Las Vegas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6250765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadgirlSBA/pseuds/MadgirlSBA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent had been careful in the years since the draft to be The One Who Knocked, the One Who Interrupted, the One Who Could, y’know, Leave. So inviting Jack to his apartment, while better than inviting him to a fucking candlelit dinner or some shit, had maybe been a dumb idea. ‘Cuz now Kent was wringing his hands like a fucking grandmother in the entryway, waiting, stuck, for whatever shit Jack was going to drag through his door.</p><p>OR</p><p>What happened in Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bluff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yoho81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoho81/gifts).



They had dinner at his place after the game, and Jack tried to leave twice before Kent let him go.

The first time was just after they ate, which was already late. They didn’t even meet until half past eleven because Kent didn’t answer Jack’s texts until almost ten thirty, because Kent knew that Jack’s curfew was eleven, and because some part of Kent wanted to know what Jack would risk in order to see him. By the time his doorman called up Kent had changed out of three shirts and two pairs of pants. He’d brushed out and then re-mussed his hair.

He had been going back and forth between hoping Jack would take the bait and hoping he’d blow him off, and being anxious about both.

Kent had been careful in the years since the draft to be The One Who Knocked, the One Who Interrupted, the One Who Could, y’know, Leave. Inviting Jack to his apartment, while better than inviting him to a fucking candlelit dinner or some shit, had maybe been a dumb fucking idea. ‘Cuz now Kent was wringing his hands like a fucking grandmother in the entryway, waiting for whatever shit Jack Zimmerman was going to drag through his door.

When Kent answered the knock it was almost anticlimactic. Jack was … still in his game day suit. His hair was tucked under a cap, damp a little, so that when he took it off he had a gross dent of wet hair. He looked normal. Kent figured he must have come from the arena and imagined Jack sitting in a quiet corner, staring at his phone. He braced for a comment about Kent’s hosting abilities, about how long he’d waited for Kent to text, about the immaturity of demanding Jack come past his curfew.

But Jack just walked calmly into Kent’s apartment, set the takeout bag on the coffee table, and said, “Nice place. What’d you order?”

Kent let out a small, shaking breath that he hoped Jack didn’t notice. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “I, uh, got your faves. So never say I didn’t do anything for you, bro. And I have some wine?” He did have some, some really nice red wine that the lady at the bougie store had said was _strong but tasteful_. “It’s in the kitchen if you want to grab it.”

He reached for the sushi, glad for something to do with his hands, but Jack tutted, fucking _tutted_ , and turned to rummage through Kent’s kitchen.

“Where’re your plates?” he called. Kent set the sushi box back down, raising his eyebrows at Jack.

“I dunno. Try the dishwasher, man.”

Jack found exactly three plates in the dishwasher, where they’d been sitting for … possibly weeks. They’d been picked out by Kent’s mom the first day Kent arrived in Vegas. There had once been a full set of eight, red and black, the Aces colors, but the others had all been smashed in various incidents over the years. Kent had squirreled away the last three after plate number five met a dramatic, drunken, post-playoff season end. He had figured he should have at least enough for when his parents visited. If the guys came over Kent gave them paper plates and Solo cups, joked that they deserved children’s utensils anyway.

He didn’t cook much for himself.

Jack arranged the sushi on their plates, deftly dividing the rolls by preference; more of the spicy rolls for Kent, more of the salmon for himself. He opened Kent’s fridge and frowned at the emptiness before grabbing them both bottles of water.

“Wasteful,” he said, before cracking one open and taking a sip.

It made something in Kent’s stomach do an ominous flip.

“Yeah, well, it’s Vegas,” he said, “This whole city is wasteful. You not going to have any wine?”

“Help yourself,” Jack said. Kent gritted his teeth.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Then he grabbed Jack’s plate without looking at him and walked it back to the coffee table, setting it down next to his so that Jack would either have to sit near Kent on the couch or move the plate. This was something that Kent did with people that he brought back to his place for sex.

Jack picked up his plate and moved to the armchair, and Kent felt the flip again.

He wondered, as they sat eating their food, not talking, if he should turn on the TV, just for background noise. Or if he should turn on the radio, or if was okay to check his twitter or his facebook, since he couldn’t stand the just sitting there. But Jack was giving him nothing, no hint of where to go with this.

“So,” Kent finally said, setting down his plate, full but not satisfied, antsy, like he could eat forever or fling himself out the window. “Good game, man.”

Jack just looked at his shoes. Kent didn’t know when Jack had gotten _unreadable_ , but it was pissing him off. Even in the worst times, Kent used to be able to feel Zimms simmer. “What,” he asked, his stomach clenching, knowing in a crushing way that every word he said was one more he couldn’t keep in, and that Kent really oughtta learn how to keep his shit in around Zimms, “You got nothing to say?”

“Sure. You, too. Good game.”

“That’s it?”

Jack shrugged. “I’ve been waiting to play the Aces,” he said. “It was a … good game.”

“And?”

Jack frowned. “What do you want me to say, Kenny?”

“I dunno,” Kent said. “Something about your life, I guess. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

Kent waited.

“ _Okay_?” he pushed, searching for the private smile at the corner of Jack’s lips that he still thought about when he kissed someone else, or the furious tightening of his jaw that Kent told his therapist made him feel like fire. “You like the team? You looked good with Beaumont. Better than you ever looked at Samwell.”

There was a flash of heat in Jack’s eyes and he abruptly sat up and Kent matched him without thinking about it, the wine sloshing dangerously against the edge of his glass.

“Different level of the game,” Jack gritted out.

“Sure. Haven’t seen you play that well since we were at Rimouski. We were a class to ourselves, huh?”

“Don’t compare it,” Jack said. “Why do you always - you have no idea how I played. When I was at Samwell.”

“Oh, right.”

“Seriously, Kent.”

“Oh come _on_ \- like you even fucking believe your own shit right now.”

“Right, Kenny, ‘cuz of course you’re on expert on NCAA-“

“Shut _up_ , dude, I watched your boring ass college games all the time and you fucking know it. I read your interviews. Fuck, Jack, I watched the promo videos for your stupid summer camp.”

“Fine!” Jack said. He looked sick and uncomfortable, but fuck him, Jack always looked sick when Kent tried to talk about … anything, _anything_ that mattered.

“Yeah, of course,” Kent drawled, sarcasm pouring out of him, “I tried to open contract negotiations for a dude I hadn’t seen skate since he was eighteen and high out of his fucking mind.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“I’m not half as pathetic as you think I am, bro. What do you think I do, sit here and, fuckin’, _pine_ over you?” Kent laughed. “No, puh-lease, bitch, I _win_. I asked you to play here because I thought we could win again, fucking excuse me for-“

And that was the first time Jack tried to leave.

It was kind of thrilling, in that sharp way that Jack hating Kent was always thrilling. But when Jack stood up, unsteady on his feet, and scooped his plate away to the kitchen, Kent lurched after him. It was thrilling but it was wrong, it hurt, it felt too much like Kent was young and stupid and hyperventilating to an emergency operator in Brandon’s cold bathroom. _Kent_ was the one who left now. Jack was never allowed to leave Kent again.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, still clutching his fucking glass, now almost empty. _Dammit Parson_ , he thought furiously, _pull it together._ “C’mon, I’m sorry. Don’t go yet.”

“Why not?” Jack asked.

“C’mon, I just miss you. Stay for a bit longer.”

“You can’t say that whenever you want something from me,” Jack said shakily. “It’s not fair.”

“I don’t!”

“You do. You fucking _do_ , Kenny. It’s almost one. I have to get back.”

“Please,” Kent reached out, wrapped a hand around Jack’s wrist. “C’mom, man, I’ll cool it.”

Kent knew what was going to happen before it did. Jack moved to rip his hand away and Kent panicked. He tightened his grip just as he felt Jack start to pull. They jerked, and the plate in Jack’s hand and the wine in Kent’s dropped, shattering into pieces on the hard linoleum. Porcelain and glass scattered across the floor.

Kent startled and tried to step away, but Jack snapped, “Don’t move.”

Kent stopped. Jack leaned down, his big, tense body suddenly gentle, and started collecting the shards of the plate. Kent swallowed. Quiet reigned over the kitchen and a sense of unreality settled like goosebumps across Kent’s shoulders as he watched Jack, fucking Jack Zimmerman, use his fingers to gently and cautiously collect the broken pieces of Kent’s shitty dishware.

“Will you stay for just a little longer?” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I want to be able to talk to you without all this … shit.”

“Fine,” Jack mumbled. He grabbed a last tiny bit and then scanned the floor, face hidden in shadow. “You can probably walk out now, but do you have a vacuum so we can get the last of it?”

“Yeah,” Kent swallowed again. He dragged the vacuum he kept for the cleaning lady out of his hallway closet. They didn’t talk while Jack meticulously went over every piece of Kent’s kitchen, even the possibility of conversation drowned out in the noise. Kent felt suffocated by it, but when Jack turned the vacuum off the sudden silence was just as heavy.

This time, it was Jack who started talking.

“I am actually doing well,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Kent, electing instead to wrap up the vacuum cord with all the precision of a 5-hole goal. “I do like the guys. I like Providence.”

“It’s, uh, close to Samwell, right?” Kent asked.

“Yes,” Jack said.

“That’s good.”

“It is.” Jack set the vacuum against counter and then leaned next to it, crossing his arms. “I’m good, really, Kenny. You deserve to know that, I guess.”

“Do you ever wish…?” Kent gestured out the window, at Vegas in all her shiny glory.

“No,” Jack said.

“Never?”

“I couldn’t,” Jack’s voice was soft. “I couldn’t play with you again. Definitely not here. This place is yours.”

“Yeah,” Kent said, swallowing hard. It was. That was one of the things he’d originally needed from Vegas, even as he hated it. Vegas was all Kent’s and not at all Jack’s. “You, uh, wanna go back to the living room?”

“Sure.” They sat back down. This time, Jack sat next to Kent, though he kept himself to the very edge of the couch. “Do _you_ still like it here?” he asked.

“I will always like Las Vegas,” Kent said. “C’mon, isn’t this place so me? All the lights, all the people, everyone’s having a good fuckin’ time.”

“And you can play good hockey.”

“Yeah,” Kent rested his head against the back of the couch. He was tired. He didn’t really want to talk about hockey, didn’t want to think that was the only thing they could talk about now, but maybe it was and Kent just had to get used to it. “That, too.”

“It’s not that I don’t miss it,” Jack said. Kent rolled his neck to look at Jack from under his eyelashes. “Playing with you was the easiest hockey I ever played. But it was the worst time of my life.”

“Ouch,” Kent mumbled. It’s not like he didn’t know that. It’s not like the writing hadn’t been on the wall like the fuckin’, hockey Chamber of Secrets. But hearing it was still somehow like a puck to a private place. “It was rough for me, too,” he said. “Jesus, Zimms. I had to move, like, two weeks later. And you weren’t talking to me.”

“I was taking care of myself.”

“I _know_ that. But, you gotta understand, I took care of you, too, okay? Like, you vanished, and I was all by myself.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. Then, after a moment, “But, c’mon Kent, you wanted it.”

“I what?” Kent made himself sit up so that he could look at Jack straight on.

“You _wanted_ the Aces.” Jack shrugged. “I wanted to … eh, stop. And you wanted the Aces. It wasn’t a hard decision to make at the time.” Kent stared at him. Jack shook his head. “I know how wrong that is, now. But when I woke up, thinking about you finally making it - it made it harder to feel guilty. Harder to want to get better.”

“Jesus, Jack,” Kent choked. “I didn’t want the Aces half as much as I wanted you. How could you-.”

“I know.”

“I _didn’t_. You never said anything.“ He wanted to kiss Jack, all of a sudden, which was fucking warped. He wanted to feel the warmth coming off his skin. He hadn’t said this when they were kids, when they were together, when he had everything he ever wanted in his hands. He hadn’t said it when it _mattered_ and maybe that, that small ugly truth, was why it still did.

He met Jack’s eyes. “I still don’t want it like I want you.”

“Kenny.” Jack breathed after a long moment. “We can’t do this again.”

“I know that,” Kent said. He did. But he also knew that some part of him was going to want to have Jack, in his life and in his game, for the rest of his damn life. He could tell you when Jack stopped being a good thing, he could tell you when Jack started being a bad thing, a sick part of Kent that hurt and throbbed more than anything else, but he didn’t think Jack would ever stop being a _sure_ thing. “I know that. I know it’ll never be like it was, I’m not a fucking idiot. But c’mon, Jack.” Why does he always have to push it? His head was warm and heavy with wine. “You’re here.”

“No.”

“No one would know. No one has ever caught me before.”

“Jesus,” Jack said. And that was the second time he tried to leave. “I should go.”

 _“Now_ who’s being unfair?” Kent scowled at Jack. “Look, I’m not really trying to _seduce_ you.” Mostly. He mostly wasn’t. If Jack was game, Kent wasn’t sure he could stop himself. But this was … nice. Good, to get it out in the air. “I’m just letting you know, because it’s important. Okay?”

“It’s not healthy.” Jack said.

“Don’t project your shit on me,” Kent said. “Just, shut up. Nod your head if you got the fucking message, and then let it go. Nod.”

Jack didn’t do anything.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’ve gotta move on.”

“To what?” Kent demanded. He gestured again to his massive windows, to the glistening skyline, to the world of hockey fans that spanned outward from the two of them, huddled in this room. “To what? There’s jack shit out there. Not like there was with you.”

“It’s possible,” Jack insisted. His voice was strained, and he was leaning towards Kent on the couch. His eyes were pleading, but for the second time that night, Kent couldn’t even fathom what Jack was getting at. “I’m telling you, Kenny. It’s possible.”

“You know what?” Kent snapped, battling a sharp desire just to - just to _reach out_ and _touch_. “You’re right about one thing. I wanted this job. I still want this. I’m so fucking lucky to have all of this shit. And I’m _not_ gonna give that up, alright, for the off _-_ chance that some homo asshole doesn’t out me and we fall in some kind of forever-love. C’mon, man.” Kent shook his head. “If it didn’t work with _us_?”

Jack looked like Kent had just announced he had terminal cancer. “You make me sad,” he said. “But I do miss you, Kenny.”

“Yeah?” Kent huffed. “Right back at you, dude.”

They sat together. There was enough light coming through the windows that Kent hadn’t felt the need to turn on any lamps. The hushed mumbling of Vegas was soothing on all the parts of Kent that smarted, the parts that lost tonight, the parts that were raw reminders of old wounds. He was so tired. Seeing Jack made him feel young and stupid and sleepy. His head fell back against the couch again. He shouldn’t have had the stupid alcohol.

“Tell me something about Providence,” he mumbled.

“What do you wanna hear?”

“I don’t know,” Kent said. “Where’s your favorite place to get food?” Jack squirmed, but he answered.

“Terry – Beaumont – he and I go to this place over in Federal Hill that serves, uh, Ukrainian food. It’s not really on our diet plan, but. The owners know us now and the borscht there is good. I brought Maman when she came for our season opener.”

“Yeah?” Kent sighed. “How is Alicia?”

Kent let Jack talk, quietly, and Jack seemed to know Kent needed it because he didn’t stop.

Kent woke back up almost two hours later. He cracked an eye and looked across the couch. Jack was sitting completely straight, eyes still wide and alert, and just the sight of him tense and awake in Kent’s living room gave him a shot of emotion so potent Kent felt like he was gonna cry.

“You leavin’?” he asked. Jack startled, blinked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I should have left hours ago. Just, didn’t want to disappear while you were asleep.”

 _Fuck me_ , Kent thought. Out loud he said, “Well thank God for old-fashioned Canadian manners.” Jack stood up. He was vibrating with it, whatever mystery thing it was that was making his shoulders so tight, his back so straight. Contempt for Kent, maybe, or his weird new optimism, or who knows what.

“It was nice talking to you,” Jack said.                                                                                            

“Or close enough,” Kent agreed. Jack dawdled, looking down at Kent. “ _What_ , Zimms?”

“Just, how long can this fucking last, eh?” Jack asked. He shook his head, pulled his jacket onto his shoulders. “You’re gonna run out of luck some day, Kenny, you will. And I don’t know what you’ll do.”

Kent swallowed and the back of his throat burned, but he waved Jack away.

“Sure. See yah, Zimms. Call me sometime.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “You call me, too. If you need anything, eh? Bye.”

Then he left, and Kenny didn’t stop him. And all the feeling went out the door with him, leaving Kent on the couch in a cloud of utter numb.

 

* * *

 

That’s what Kent is, he’s lucky. Kent’s lucky. He’s playing the game he loves, he’s captain of a group of decent guys, he’s got a pile of trophies in his house that Jack will never match. He was drafted to a team that needed him, that _he_ needed to be the best, and so he is, he’s the best. Kent’s parents love him. When everything got Too Fucking Hard, when all that was passing between Kent and the boy he would have died for were fraught kisses and hockey pucks and broken promises that they would be okay, Kent stayed healthy. Kent found Jack before the he could actually die. And when Jack posts that disgusting photo with himself wrapped around Kent-Lite, no one connects it back to him. That night, no one catches Kent hooking up with the viciously hot club dancer in the dark corner by the bar. No one ever catches Kent.

He’s not happy. He can’t _make_ himself _happy_ , but that is not the point. Kent’s lucky, and he’s going to ride that as long as he can.

Vegas, he thinks, was always the city for him.

**Author's Note:**

> To all the people who were wondering what went down in First Day of My Life chapter four, and for everyone else.
> 
> I introduced Check Please to a friend and afterwards, when we were talking about it, he looked at me and said, “Kent is so fucking sad.” Kent’s not a villain and he’s not a hero, but he is seriously, upsettingly, fucked up. Jack found a place he felt safe. I've always felt like, with what evidence we have, Kent never totally did.


End file.
